


Sacramental Sin

by borrowedphrases



Series: If God Smokes Cheap Cigars [2]
Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, M/M, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 23:44:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1960749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takatora savors a night spent with Kouta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacramental Sin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [duckiesandlemons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesandlemons/gifts).



> Written for a private fic writing exercise using [The Almost Totally Random Writing Exercise Generator](http://panthermoon.com/generators/generator1.php).
> 
> The Prompt was: _250 - 300 words / Porn / Immortal_. And I heavily expanded upon it after the fact.

  
  
_the bad feels, feels good to me_  
 _and fuck the sin right out of me_  
"The Devil's Tongue", Envy on the Coast

Kouta's skin is hot against Takatora's chilled fingers, almost heated enough to burn him, and were it any other time, Takatora would take a moment to admire the contrast in their skin tones, the silvery notes of his own against Kouta's hinting of gold. The flush of life against the pallidness of the grave. Night meeting day, life meeting death, things that should not come together, but are.

And somehow not in conflict. It still baffles him, still gives him pause, makes him contemplate theological mysteries near as often as the mortal ones do.

But not right now. Right now he has other things on his mind.

"Takatora." Kouta moans, a high pitched, keening sound. Takatora can only groan in answer.

Kouta's warm hands press down against Takatora's chest, arms stick straight and tensed up, elbows locked what looks to be almost painfully tight. Kouta is shaking, quivering, Takatora can feel it where they touch, where their hips meet. Kouta's eyes are shut tight and his mouth hangs open, though he's barely drawing any breath, just tiny little half gasps here and there, as Takatora rolls his hips. He's going slow, but with a purpose, searching, trying to find that magic angle that will make Kouta unravel, maybe even make him curse.

He can feel Kouta tense up even further when his hardness - one of those blessedly indulgent things they only have in their mortal forms - hits just right. Seconds later Kouta's eyes fly open, a sharp breath filling his lungs as his wings unfurl from his back, no longer able to be confined to the pale tattoos on his skin. Great white wings that seem to fill the room, though they're not quite that large. He swings them, beats them once through the air so hard the gust of heavenly wind sends the window blinds clattering, sends the lamp clear off the bedside table to break on the floor. They don't need its light now anyway, not with how Kouta's wings glow.

Takatora keeps his hips moving, keeps them at that wicked angle, and each time he moves forward, presses deep inside Kouta, the angel's wing stretch and spread, flexing like he's about to take flight. His moans are like hymnals, though his prayers aren't to the Divine light. They're just for him. Just for Takatora. And Takatora takes pride in that knowledge. 

"Kouta." Takatora breathes his name with a sigh, lips trembling, voice wavering. He's as entranced with watching Kouta revel in pleasure as he is caught up in his own passion.

Takatora can feel a familiar ache in his shoulder blades, spreading outward down his back and along his arms. He can feel that warning, searing chill in the scars that line his back. He groans, long and low, and gasps, and finally sits up just seconds before he own wings manifest, ripping out of the scars and spreading out behind him. Tattered black feathers scatter behind him as he beats them, as he stretches them out as wide as Kouta's.

Takatora wraps his arms around Kouta, holding him close as he continues to work their hips together. Kouta's hands are still pressed against his chest, his face now buried in the crook of Takatora's neck. He's still moaning, still praying, but softer now, little whimpers, almost drowned out by Takatora's gasping, hissing cursing. He's close, they're both close, practice has made it so that Takatora can tell, and it only drives him forward, makes his hips jerk with more purpose, until he starts to lose the coherency of his rhythm.

It's Kouta who reaches climax first, wings spreading out with a blinding radiance as his mortal body gives up and gives in, his seed spilling over Takatora's stomach. Takatora grabs at the base of each of Kouta's wings, buries his fingers in the feathers and grips as his own wings spasm, molting and twitching and casting shadows across the bed behind him. He moans Kouta's name - his true immortal name - into his hair as he rides out his own pleasure.

He stays inside Kouta throughout, hips gradually slowing, then stilling. He'll stay like that until he's soft, and even then he won't want to move, won't want to break their connection. For now he just wraps his wings around Kouta, cloaks him in shadow and tries to gather all of his light within them, where it can touch only Takatora. Nothing else deserves even a touch of his brilliance.

Kouta is trembling, still panting softly. He turns his face to press his cheek to Takatora's collarbones. His hair is damp with sweat, but Takatora doesn't mind. He places soft kisses in it, buries his nose and breathes, savoring the richness of it, a scent of Kouta's only Takatora gets to enjoy. Musky and earthy, practically mortal, but with undertones of honeyed grain fields, of trees heavy with ripened fruit, of rice and sake and sweet red wine.


End file.
